


Midnight at The Murder Garden

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anachronism, BDSM, Clothing Kink, Control Kink, Descriptions of graphic murder and torture, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Play Party, Plot was not the point, Romance, Secret club, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slow Build, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple, but there is some plot, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of gruesome deaths lead Sherlock and John into the underground world of posh play parties and dungeons. To attract the attention of the murderer they find themselves undercover at one of the most prestigious parties in London, where the entrance fee takes more than just money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LyricaXXX (LyricaB)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/gifts).



> Lyrica XXX asked for: 
> 
> _I like to read steamy hot stories in which the relationship between Sherlock and John is a strong element. My favourite guilty pleasure is any of the undercover tropes such as gay, married, dom/sub. Especially undercover as dom & sub. I also like the friends to lovers; ticket to the clue bus; and virgin/inexperienced tropes. Don't mind AUs, as long as they're well done, not too far out, and John and Sherlock are in-character. Explicit is preferred, but not absolutely necessary as long as the story's sexy hot. Also like either character as BAMF!. _
> 
> I did my best to comply. I'm a lover of all these things, but I admit it was my first foray at writing them within the fandom. Smut yes.... but usually not quite this pwp.

“This is not the first.”

The body had been there for at least twelve hours, although it was more evident from the smell than any other possible signs. The remains had been so mutilated that it was proving difficult to discern much beyond the victim was human, male, and suffered a violent death.

John just prayed that the person was dead prior to their dissection. 

"Yeah well. The other's weren't in my jurisdiction, and nobody bothered asking my opinion." 

"Mmm," Sherlock's eyes flickered up towards the ropes hooked to the ceiling. 

“They were into… that kink stuff then?” asked Lestrade coughing. “Perhaps it went too far? Too passionate and they-“

“Stop talking Lestrade. You’ve managed to insult the intelligence of all those listening, and I’m begin to reconsider my opinion of your possible glimmers of aptitude I have seen on occasion.”

It was violent enough to unsettle Sherlock, which had put the entire team on edge. He may have had a field day with the presentation, but John could see the man shifted uncomfortably as he leaned over detached remains. 

“Just get on it with it," muttered Lestrade. The DI had been green when they arrived, and his pallor had yet to improve. 

Each drip-drop of blood slowly titillating from the saturated mattress onto the already stained floor caused those around to shudder. The scene was something out of a hellish fantasy. Feet, recognizable where they were still clasped to the bed by thick iron cuffs. Hands, recognizable where they were still wrapped with rope and strung towards the ceiling. The figure drawn so far back their legs and arms had been pulled from their joints. There was a chord around their neck, and wrapped again around the shoulder and hips in intricate knots. It might have been called art, if not for the metal spikes woven into the twine that had rubbed the skin until it was an open wound.

The skin was flecked with abrasions, flechette marks, stripes from a whip or flogger that stood out vividly on what skin remained. Much of it had been removed, skinned, with an open wound at the ribs and the heart wrapped with leather and stuffed like a gag in their mouth.

“Yes and no.”

John’s fist clenched where he stood next to Lestrade, as he began to feel ill at the climbing list of atrocities done to the corpse.

“Just get to it Sherlock.”

The detective rolled his eyes, “Lestrade said it was a crime of passion concerning the applications of sadomasochism. Yes it is passion and yes the murderer applied implications of sadomasochistic practices, but not in the way implicated.” Sherlock stood and made his way across the room and away from the body. “Someone is targeting the community, and using their techniques to mar the image.”

Lestrade groaned, “And it’s not someone currently in the community because-“

“The knots Lestrade.”

He was out of the room before he could say another word.

“Bloody hell,” the Inspector groaned.

“Yeah. I’ll go after him then shall I?”

 

***

 

 “Well you’re in a special kind of mood,” John said crossing his arms where he found Sherlock back at their rooms and hovering over John’s laptop.

“People constantly jump to the most inane conclusions where sex is concerned, especially in the application of the more obscure sexual practices. I say dominatrix and the mind jumps straight to reprehensible acts. Never mind the people involved find it consensual.”

“Alright. Yes. True, but Sherlock that crime scene-“

“Was horrific but no one paid the slightest attention to the details.”

“Care to enlighten me then?”

When the detective did to immediately turn, John was certain he would fail to acquiescence. Whatever had set the detective off seemed to still be bothering him, to a point there was little even John could manage. John had nearly given up to go fetch tea instead, and was half way across to the kitchen when, “The clothes and materials.”

“Yes? What about them?”

“Posh. Dripping in public school and wealth. This is true for both individuals. The materials used to murder our victim were a higher grade than completely necessary. Furthermore, the victim had been wearing a rather elaborate bespoke outfit prior to his death. Custom made and completely out of style, arguably dated to that of 1920 or so. Now when we take those things: posh, expensive toys, and available only for members of a certain class?”

He whipped around the computer to show a webpage with the words "Welcome to the Murder Garden" carefully crafted in elaborate font across the screen.

“Seriously Sherlock? Bit obvious isn’t it?”

The detective rolled his eyes, “The name has nothing to do with our suspect. For whatever reason, the parties and dungeons tend towards names with some form of name with implications of crime and torture. Never mind the tastes offered range variably, it would seem the organizers focus primarily on those fixations and the reputation it gives to the general audience.”

“How lovely.”

“Yes. And I’ve got us an invite to their next soirée.”

The teacup John had been holding fell, shattering upon the floor before he could register the action.

“I’m sorry. _What_ did you say?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the webpage, “Must you be so predictable when it comes to sex John? It’s necessary in this situation. The killer is looking for couples who engage in a combination of sexual past times. All of the victims were found the day following one of the Murder Garden events, in a general vicinity where it had been held. They were obviously members.”

“You said couples. I thought this was the fifth?”

“Not couples themselves and their partners did not come forward. Correct. But all had in their reports that a ‘close friends’ approach the Yard and from the reports were ‘inconsolable.’ All mentioned they had gone out for dinner or drinks the night before, and both had every signs that their relationship went into that of the biblical sort. The event makes it rather clear absolute discretion is required. There are no photos allowed, no documentation, and the lists are made with aliases.  They pride themselves on privacy, and with the price tag attached it is obviously geared towards those who perhaps would rather still keep their preferences outside of the public’s eye.”

“What of it Sherlock?”

“So who better to attract our murder’s interest than ‘Boffin Sherlock Holmes’ and his colleague ‘Widower John Watson?”

John’s lips tightened, “Sherlock.”

“Please. It’s an act, and given the dress requirements of the club I dare say you’ll find it closer to a masquerade than an orgy. They reconstruct settings and times and invite members into their space. The location changes, but the venues are bought for the night and turned into some sort of opulent setting.”

“Translation?”

“We will need to be fitted for suits. The party’s theme we are attending is “The Diamond Jubilee,” ergo, Victoriana Regina.” He turned to a collection of photographs and drawings in varying states of dress.

John’s eyes landed on a man with mutton chops and threw Sherlock a glare, “I am not wearing that. Where do you think we’ll even find something like that that we can afford? I know for a fact your budget is limited as well even with the last case we took on.”

“Mycroft. Given the caliber of murders, I dare say he won’t mind. At this rate the next one will be a Member of Parliament, and Mycroft does so hate legwork.”

“Let me guess. We’ll go to _his_ tailor?”

“Of course. He has been trying to get me there for years. I would prefer my own, but given speed is of the essence and his credit line far deeper exceptions must be made.”

John’s lips tightened and his eyes flickered over the photographs before he nodded, “Fine. Just… fine. But not that Sherlock” he said waving to the man with mutton chops.

“Certainly not. I have some other thoughts already in mind.”

It was going to be a long three weeks. 

 

**

 

“No.”

“John-“

“Sherlock I’m already going to the one party with you. I am not going to go to another just so you can _research.”_

The man paced in the sitting room. Black leather encased his legs, and a black button up flattered his torso with buttons straining. He had a hand about his riding crop, and a vase went flying with a flick of the tip.

Anger and sex emanated from the man, he was an explosion ready to set off.

The vase crashed against the wall.

 John, however, was not going to back down.

“ _How_ are we to act properly when you have never been John?"

"And you have?" John's eyebrows shot up as he looked over the other man's reaction.

Sherlock scowled.

"Murder Garden is not a club for novices. The fee alone is exorbitant, and there is a certain amount of display required to simply step through the door—especially where men are concerned. We cannot know _who_ is involved in the murders, and it will be useless attempting to hide our identities given their necessity for the game. Thus, it is absolutely vital we are believable. We _must_ pass as a couple, and a couple willing to engage in more than whatever vanilla like notions you prefer. If we fail at this than another man dies. _Do you understand?_ ”

That was unexpected, and John had not quite considered the implications of what Sherlock had asked before, too caught up in the other requisitions. Yes, in the back of his mind he had registered it was a sex club, and yes he knew they would have to show some variation of affection but—

“Display?”

“A kiss is usually sufficient.”

John licked his lips, glancing first at the ceiling, and then to the shattered vase.

“Yeah. Okay. Well, we don’t exactly need a club to practice that bit now do we?”

Dangerous.

Of late, John’s thoughts had been turning more and more to the detective. Thought's he had carried when they first met, thoughts that plagued him during the years he believed Sherlock dead, thoughts he had finally let go of after Mary and the man's subsequent return. But more than a year out of the events surrounding his wife's death and the Moriarty fiasco, his body sought to betray him once again.

Thoughts that left him awake late into the night, and kept him from seeking out company other than that of his own hand. 

Never mind Sherlock had no consideration for such things. John would not ruin what they had with an ill-timed confession over something he knew the detective would not want. Yet his eyes were drawn to the man no matter where he went, and images of the detective’s lips, arse, or even just his eyes as they lit up in revelation kept him company in his bed whether asked for or not. 

Sherlock’s pacing had stopped, and he’d turned to stare at John with a faint look of disbelief.

"What?"

“I mean...” John cleared his throat. It was too late to back down, now that he had allowed the possibility to hang between them. “We can manage that here. Without a... you know.”

If he was going to kiss Sherlock for the first time, hell if he was going to do so in front of an audience.

Of course it wouldn't satisfy Sherlock completely. Once he set his mind to something, there was wind strong enough to make the man bend. Still, there was the slight furrow of the brow as it deciphered what John meant. There was a tell-tale curve of the lip meaning he was considering the possibility, and it may at least buy John time.   

“I believe it would still be best to familiarize ourselves with the practices and customs of-“

Except John was done, especially after listening to the rest of Sherlock’s thoughts on the escapade.

“Yeah. Got it. You still want us to practice this whole couple thing before the actual event. Fine, but you have to give me notice first. Not all of us can just turn this sort of thing on and off.” John cleared his throat and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Look its fine. It’s all fine. But let’s start slow alright? We have three weeks before the event, and if you want to instigate yourself that's great, but let me take it one at a time.”

He stepped forward until they were only a hand’s breadth apart he looked away. Sherlock looked stunned, grey eyes flickering around as he tried to gather evidence. As though there were any evidence _to_ gather.

 “Fuck. Should’ve had a drink first.”

“Yes. Your bisexual tendencies do tend to reveal themselves more in the presence of alcohol.”

“Shut up.”

John’s fingers wrapped themselves around Sherlock’s waist to steady himself. Sherlock’s tongue ran over his top lip, and the detective seemed rather uncertain what he was supposed to do beyond stare down at John with mild apprehension.

_Bloody hell this was a terrible idea._

The thought was written on both their faces, but too late for either of them to pull back.

With a free hand, he caught Sherlock’s cheek, pulling the detective down to catch his lips. His eyes widened for a moment, then fluttered shut, the soft press of lips brushing against other for little more than a heartbeat.

John felt a flutter of amusement at the presence of gloss on the detective’s already plush lips.

They pulled back, and John licked his lips. He could taste the sharp flavor that remained in the afterglow. Too, there was something else in the way his stomach curled into itself, and a warmth unfurling in his chest.

Sherlock’s curls seemed tremble as he looked down upon him.

“John I-“

“S’not really a proper kiss though. Is it?”

He found the flush on Sherlock’s cheeks rather endearing, only adding to the knowledge something like that would never get them past the door of a club titled for murder.

“It’s not necessary. I mean if you-“

Sherlock had resorted to babbling. A rare event indeed for such a slight show of affection.

“Shut up Sherlock.”

His fingers sunk into Sherlock’s curls this time as he pulled him down. Sherlock’s lips were already parted in mid-speech making it easier for John as his tongue darted forward. For a moment, the detective began to pull away, but John gently coaxed him closer. Soft flicks that reached out and sought to connect with the detective’s.

After a moment, a responding push, followed by a gentle nip that caused a small groan to escape from John. His fingers pulled tighter, his tongue moved further. Twisting to taste, search, keep hold of the man that he would once more have to let go when the case was free.

When his tongue pulled away he gently bit down on Sherlock’s bottom lip, tugging and nipping, pushed forward by the sounds the other man made. His free hand ducking slightly lower, resting just along the top of his arse so he could keep him flush.

He felt Sherlock’s tongue run along his lip and opened further, allowing the other man’s tentative search. Once more something tightened in his chest, and John found Sherlock was nearly as aroused as he was as their prick’s brushed through layers of fabric.

“Oh,” murmured Sherlock, dragging John back to reality. This was Sherlock, a man, his friend, and not a lover to spend all evening in the sitting room to snog.

At least John could take pride in the knowledge this was _his_ area, whatever Sherlock might think.

“Not vanilla.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were painted with a light flush, and he adjusted himself in an attempt to hide the rather prominent erection he was currently sporting. His voice was dry as he glanced towards John.  

“No,” said John’s lips pulling up in amusement. “Not so much.”

“Then you're familiar with-“

Of course Sherlock would still want to try the club. If anything, the kiss had only added to the curious glint in the other man’s eye. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm the doctor, and the throbbing in his own trousers needed to be taken care of soon.

“Not tonight Sherlock. Tomorrow if you feel we must. I have work in the morning."

"Dull."

John rolled his eyes and continued, "-And I need time to digest, this isn’t exactly the same as just running after some murderer.”

There was a hint of a pout forming.

Damn.

“You shot a man the day after week met.”

“Still a bit different than public sex.”

“Prude.”

That caused John to smile as he lifted up his hand catching Sherlock’s cheek. He nipped at the other man’s lips, he nudged them open with his tongue as he backed the other man towards the wall.

Three-continents. Hell if he was going to sit there and be called a prude by a man he was having to coax into being snogged.

He removed his lips and moved them down to Sherlock’s neck. He pulled the collar back, and first begin with a small lick, then a second, and then nipping into the delicate skin he found there. A sharp channel of white, that provided a perfect canvas to make a point. His cock was aching by that point, begging him for whatever ease he would allow and the thought he was leaving his mark on the detective. Sherlock let out a sharp cry as he repeated the motion again, sucking gentle on the tender area before lifting his lips to settle over it in a delicate kiss.

From where he'd moved into the man's space, he could feel their cocks once more brush, and he leaned against his neck breathing hard. Sherlock was making a small whining noise, gripping John's forearm so tight John suspected he might bruise. 

Pulling back he wondered what he had done. The mark vivid against Sherlock's neck, and a reminder that would leave him aroused every time he glimpsed it over the course of the week. 

He caught Sherlock’s lips for the last time it was for a final kiss. The type of kiss he used when he was drunk, twenty-two, and just came from a night off leave with his army mates. It was the type that would let him go to his room and wank off over the sheets, and fight to keep Sherlock's name from his lips. 

Still, John would have to remember it wasn't real. Just a point. A silly little tete-a-tete between them. Something they were doing to save a man's life, and raised questions of Sherlock's own experiance given the flush on his cheeks and expression in his eyes. 

“Prude? Not really. No.”

 

**

 

The leather pants had returned.

Sherlock’s arse was perfectly encased, making it an easy sight for anyone who might take a glance, and the front providing even less as far as coverage went. Indeed, the slight bulge that looked like it could erect itself at any given moment appeared to be more of the point than the presentation it provided for his bottom.

He’d declined the clothes Sherlock had set out for him. Sherlock might want a trial run, but he was already going to be playing dress up for the second event thank you very much, and John had some idea of what was appropriate for a club. Kink or not.

The space looked unobtrusive. It was located back from the street, a few blocks away from a more bustling line of pubs and club. The entrance was marked with a simple red door and a few stragglers dressed for a night on the town.

Once inside Sherlock gave his name to the bouncer, who quickly ushered them inside, and the atmosphere changed.

The club might have passed for any other, if the dance cages hadn’t hung from suspensions, the walls embedded with cuffs.

The dance floor was filled with individuals in various states of dress. His eyes flickered towards a woman who was currently having a gown, consisting entirely of cloth strips, unwrapped by two men flanking her.

Which would have been less shocking if the man on his knees had not been doing so with his teeth. 

He needed a drink.

Sherlock was at his elbow holding out a whiskey.

“Thank you,” and with an afterthought he rose up to press a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

A couple. Might as well make the most of it while he could. 

That's why they were there after all.

A faint hint of surprised passed over the detective’s face, and when John went to take a drink the man was gone as soon as he looked away.

“Bloody hell.”

Fine. He would let the detective run off, but hell if he was going to walk through the place unescorted. The agreement was to test it out _with_ Sherlock. Not join some threesome in a dark corner.

 He was half way through with the drink, watching a man strung up against the wall across from him by a length of rope, when he was pulled out of his thoughts.

“Hello you.”

It took a moment, several moments, before he realized she was speaking to him. She was half straddling her chair, knickers, corset, stockings, and garters making up the entirety of the outfit. Finished off by a pair of stilettos he rather thought could kill. John found himself unable to pull away from the ample chest that spilled over the top. Soft red curls framed her face, and she smiled affectionately before clinking their glasses together.

“Strong and silent are you? I like that. Bet you’d have a firm hand on me,” she ran her fingers along the back of his hand. “I’ve been rather bad, think you might help keep me in line?”

“I’m not-“

“No need to be shy.”

He paused. The last time he had tried anything like this he’d been married, and they’d kept it private. Before that, it had been years since he’d dabbled, and voyeurism had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

That said, there was no sign of Sherlock and God it had been ages. The woman was beautiful, and the fact was it was a play party. They were there to mingle, try things, and adjust into the setting.

“Think you need a bit of discipline?” He licked his lips, glancing down again at the black lace barely covering her bum. God her knickers couldn't even be called that.

“Just a little." She leaned against the bar and spread her lets. Patting her bum she threw him a smile, "Perhaps we could-“

Sherlock had said blend in, and by god he might was well get something out of it

“ _Heel John_!”

He pulled away as if burned.

The woman shifted from where she had stretched out, readying herself for his hand and looked from the detective and back to John.  Her mouth made a tiny oh of surprise and for a moment he thought she might suggest exactly what he'd been leaning away from when they first entered.

It was only then he realized his hand stung and Sherlock had tapped it with the end of his crop. Fury flew through the smaller man, and he reached up grabbing the end glaring up at the detective.  

“I think not.”

The woman backed away mortified.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize- I mean you could have mentioned you were with someone and I wouldn’t have-“

John was fuming.

“Sherlock. I need to speak with you. Now.”

Sherlock ignored him, pushing between ahead and acting if the other man hadn’t spoken at all. His eyes bore down on the woman.

“Leave. Now. Your wanton attempts at poaching other men’s dates are both futile and invite further ridicule by the state of your-“

John grabbed the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him away from the woman. It might have been difficult, given his height, yet the smell of vodka was evident from the other man’s breath and combined with his surprise made it easier for John to maneuver. He pushed him back, slamming him into the wall as a rustle of cuffs banged loudly from the impact. A few eyes flickered there way, but John no longer cared. His hand tightened around the crop and he spun it to hold properly.

“Now you are going to listen.”

“I am not-“ 

John pushed him back once more, and slammed the end of the crop against the wall with a loud blow.

“No Sherlock. Not not until I'm done." He paused and took a deep  breath. 

"You are _not_ the one going to be giving orders here.”

He leaned down lowering his mouth to Sherlock’s ear with a whisper, “You didn’t want to talk about this before coming? Fine. But in this instance you are wrong Sherlock. You constantly enjoy reminding me of what a terrible actor I am. That’s fine, but it goes for here too. I am not going to be able to act like I should be under your thumb. I might take orders from you in everything else, but when it comes to this? Wrong.”

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and John was surprised to feel him nearly strumming from energy under his grip.

“But you’re not-“

“You’re right. I not. But I’ve been known to make exceptions. If we’re going to do this, it’s fine. I told you before it’s _all_ fine. But I was in the military Sherlock and I was a Captain. I give the orders not you. I am _not_ a submissive.” John could feel himself growing hard with every shudder Sherlock made. There was a light in the detective’s eyes and he lowered his lips just a fraction to nip at Sherlock’s earlobe and whisper in his ear.

“Understand?”

There was a pause. Sherlock was panting and there was nothing else to be done of it. A retort formed on the other man’s lips and John’s eyes narrowed, “Do you understand me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly and then a quick nod.

“Say it.”

“Yes. Fine.”

It was a choice. It was a choice he could make now, but if they had to do this—if they had to enact this more than once and if someone needed to think they were truly a couple. The kind of couple that a serial killer sought out for their kinks to break apart and see dead.

“Yes what?”

“John I-“

“Yes _what, Sherlock?”_

Sherlock licked his lips again. There was a flush in his cheeks, his eyes were bright, and to John’s surprise he realized the other man was aroused as well.

“Yes, sir.”

They had a bit of an audience, including the red-headed woman from earlier watching them at the bar. John found himself growing harder at the eyes flickering over them. 

In for a penny, out for a pound. 

John nodded and let go of the grip. ”Now I was going to help that young woman over there with a bit of discipline,” his eyes flickered over and he motioned to the bar with the crop. “But given your behavior, I think we’ll have to revise that.”

Except they hadn’t discussed _any_ of this.

“John I-“

John’s fingers slipped over Sherlock’s lips. “Did I give you permission to speak?”

A quick shake of the other man’s head.

“I thought not. Always have to be the center of attention don’t you? So- I’ll let you choose. What shall I do with you Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s pupils were blown, and John felt smug at his ability to completely stop the other man for once. Sherlock started to open his lips, and John removed his fingers.

“Go on. There’s a good boy. Tell me.”

His eyes flickered to the red-head and John’s lips curled into a smile, “Corporal? Perhaps I'll put your crop to it's proper use?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, “I….” he looked around and then nodded. “Yes.”

John nodded, his own eyes observing the area. “I’ll be right back. I want you to brace yourself against the bar and don’t move until I return.”

He fetched another drink and downed it in a swallow. From where he was he could watch Sherlock do as he was told, and brace himself again the wall in preparation for what was to come. There were a few complimentary looks, and John ran his hand along the front of his own jeans to try to adjust himself.

God it was wrong on so many levels. Why hadn’t he forced them to discuss this? Of course he’d had no idea he would be so affected, but given the crush he’d been harboring since the bloody man first opened his mouth years ago—

He returned and brushed his hand along the other man’s rear. Sherlock stood firm, and refused to glance back.

“Count.”

He gave a slight tap along the leather with the tip of the crop.

Sherlock’s grip tightened. “One.”

“Two.”

When they reached ten John felt a moment and then said leaning over the other man’s ear.

“I don’t think you’re feeling a damn thing in those trousers.”

He ran a hand over the back of Sherlock’s arse and watched the man shudder this time beneath him. Given the tone of the muscles, John would have supposed the man worked out daily if he hadn’t known better. Running amok on cases seemed to do something for the detective at least.

“Why don’t we start with this shirt first? Hm?”

Sherlock’s head rose and John felt a smile curl on his lips.

“Strip.”  

He felt Sherlock go still, like he might refuse, and John wondered if he’d gone too far. This was supposed to be just an act, but while Sherlock might underestimate his abilities John was just as aware of the situation as Sherlock. They would have to blend in.

He’d worried this might happen, but leave it to the detective to think he knew it all.

They were too well recognized, and there had been murders. They needed to fit into the scene, be recognizable for their preferences in such a setting and not for detectives on a case.

John knew from the start the clothes were never going to make it through the night.

Meanwhile John was fighting to keep from touching himself again. He was surprised how much he enjoyed it, enjoyed the touch of Sherlock’s arse along his hand, the feel of him pliant and willing, the surprise that shone on the other man’s face at each stroke.

He watched the shirt flutter to the ground, the muscles flex, and reached out to brush his hand along the man’s spine.

John’s hand froze midair.

A few of the spectator’s immediately moved away, their eyes flickering between them, and then turned to leave. 

John winced as a woman hissed something about limits.

John’s fingers hovered and he couldn’t stop himself from brushing the most defined line gently before letting his fingers fall away.

When he found his voice it was hoarse from anger.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

“John.”

“Now Sherlock.”

There was the faint rustling of a shirt and buttons, and John turned to go, barely listening to the soft sound of Sherlock behind him.

They were out of the club and in a cab before he felt like he might be able to speak again.

He should ask. Bloody hell, and here he thought he was doing so well, _surprising_ the other man, when it was obvious there was-

“It’s not what you think.”

“You can’t know what I’m thinking.”

Sherlock paused and then, “You think it has to do with… all this. It doesn’t. I will explain, but not until we are home.”

They fell back into silence, less companionable, and both of their thoughts so loud they may as well have been shouting. It was John who threw money at the cabbie once Sherlock bolted, and the detective slipped into his chair not meeting John’s face.

“You told me once you didn’t wish to know what occurred after my fall, but I am afraid the matter at hand is somewhat pertinent to the matter at hand.”

It was enough to stop John in his tracks just inside the door.

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Your iniitial inclination was correct. Tonight was my first time in such an establishment. The scars have nothing to do with what you would call bdsm, which was what you initially thought. Obvious.”

“I didn’t-“

“Drug addict with scars on his back? My own inclinations towards the Woman? Please John.”

He didn’t argue this time.

“Wrong of course. I received these during my time away. I was working on infiltrating an organization with connections to Moriarty within Serbia. I was captured, and Mycroft was not so swift in his rescue.” He said it as though he were describing a cup of tea rather than a session of torture.

His stomach dropped. Of all the things John had imagined, and the whispers he had heard concerning Sherlock’s time abroad, this had never been one of them.

“Oh God.”  

“I assure you not. There was little sanctity to be found in those cells.”

There was something dark in Sherlock’s expression, but John had spent enough time with prisoners of war to know what it meant when a man received wounds like under imprisonment.

He’d had no idea.

“May I see?”

Sherlock nodded and his fingers lifted to the buttons once more. The shirt fell from his shoulders and John crossed the room to look over the smattering of scars that crossed his back. The detective’s muscles tightened under the touch.

They were still well defined, even after the years. John had long ago come to terms with his own scar, but this was something else. This was a remnant of something he should have been there for, something that should have never happened. Sherlock wasn't a soldier. Yet here there was an entire painting fighting with everything John had thought he knew, and at the center a small crevice of a bullet that almost killed him. 

How had he missed this? 

"The men who did this are dead?" 

Sherlock's lips curled, and he could almost hear the amusement in his voice, "Planning to fly to Serbia and take them down Captain?" 

John scowled, resting his hand along the thickest scar. 

"I mean it Sherlock." 

Silence and then a subtle nod, "Mycroft took care of them." 

"Good." 

It raised another question though. It explained some of Sherlock's habits these days, but it also led John to reconsider his earlier assessment. He had not lied when he said he would be a poor hand at acting as the submissive. His own war experiences had left him battered even now, and he did not trust himself to be ordered by the other man.  

"I am fine John. I find I did not... mind what you performed earlier this evening. Indeed, I rather enjoyed aspects of it. As you said, you would make a poor submissive. The moment I issued a command you were on the defensive, and we should never pass scrutiny as such."

“We could switch-“

Sherlock cut him off.

“No. I am far more receptive to your orders. You obviously have more experience that I did not foresee, and it makes you better equipped to handle such scenes. We shall discuss options if you would like, although the only object I should have any real objection to would be a caning.”

Something must have shown on John’s face, and Sherlock scowled.

“I mean it John. It was some time ago now, and I have undergone worse things than a particularly severe whipping in a Serbian dungeon.”

“I want your safeword then." Sherlock gave a dissenting snort and John scowled.

"I mean it Sherlock. We should have had one to start, but I’m apparently an idiot and didn’t think about it. I also want to know the minute I go too far. I’m going to like have to have you unclothe, and I need to know what you’d be okay with. You saw what the other couples were engaging in, and we’ll never attract the murderer’s attention with just a whipping and snogging session. Neither of us expect sex, but… if I’m the one in control I need to know what our limits are.”

Their eyes met, and it was Sherlock who looked away with a brisk nod.  

“Yes. Fine.”

After a moment John added, "And I want us both tested. Just in case." 

"Unnecessary." 

"Hopefully. But I'm a doctor Sherlock. I won't compromise on that front." 

The man looked like he might argue again, and then nodded, "Fine."

John took the seat across from him, "Good. Let's start with the scenes you would prefer."

 

**

 

The tailor was apparently a god.

Personally, John thought it was still absurd to spend _thousands_ of pounds on a suit that in all likelihood he would only wear once. Maybe. He might consider getting away with it at other occasions, given it was now the best fitting piece of clothing he owned.

He looked like he’d walked out of a play on the West End, or perhaps the pages of Kipling novel. Sherlock had apparently asked for John’s outfit to play off military impressions, and it showed in subtle ways.

And the boots?

John had a suspicion  they cost more than the rent.

A shame it would all come off once they arrived.

The past few weeks had been a strange insight to a new world, where the center seemed to rotate around Sherlock. John doubted it full prepared either of them for that night, but there had come an ease that they had not shared since that first year at 221 B. 

Slight touches. Gentle looks. A closeness when they sat, and the brushing of knees under the kitchen table. 

For three weeks, John could nearly imagine he had the other man, and Sherlock had seemed almost cordial towards the interaction. 

Now it would culminate into one evening, and they would return to their normal regimen by morning. 

John decided if that was the case, by God, he'd at least enjoy himself. 

He stepped downstairs and Sherlock was lingering by the fireplace, stopping John in his tracks. 

Black and grey three piece, with a tie around the high cut collar. It should have been nothing exceptional, but then everything on Sherlock Holmes proved to be so. The jacket was cut long, ending in tails, and the waistcoat a charcoal grey with a silver watch chain hung between. He seemed taller, and his neck appeared to go on for miles. His hair was slicked back, the curls tight against his brow although a brief smattering were attempting freedom in a way that implied the work would be for naught by the end of the evening.

To complete the ensemble, a top hat rested along the mantelpiece. 

The man may as well have been an illustration in an Oscar Wilde novel. 

John had only a moment to look before Sherlock collected the great coat he’d had constructed to finish off the look. A multilayer tweed contraption that made him seem even taller if possible. 

From across the room he drew a leather satchel and presented it to John, who took it puzzled.

John’s eyebrows shot up, “And what’s this?”

Sherlock licked his lips, “Rope. Cuffs. My riding crop. It is suggested members should purchase or may bring their own ‘toys.’ These are the items I would prefer you to use on me. Obviously you will make use of any settings, suspensions and such, but this will allow you an assortment of items that you know I should feel the most comfortable with.”

John glanced inside and then glanced back at Sherlock, “There's a knife Sherlock.”

“Indeed.”

Tempting, but possibly in over their heads.

“Fine. Anything else?”

“I believe that’s all. You mentioned the possible circumstances in which sexual acts may be needed previously. I am amicable and give you full permission. I suspect some level of intimacy will be necessary and I will let you set those limits. So long as you refrain from bringing in another individual I have no argument.”

John felt his cock twitch at the invitation in an act of the utmost betrayal.

“Bloody hell Sherlock. That’s not how it works.”

“They need to believe we’re a couple John. A couple who goes to clubs such as this to hide a relationship, and engage in intimate acts.”

“I'll see. There might not be a need.”

He could tell by the curl of Sherlock’s lip there would, but it was the best he could manage at that moment, and god knew he needed all the help he could get through the evening without letting the truth slip out.

John had to give the cabbie credit for the few looks he rewarded them with, although perhaps he was use to a wide range of individuals requesting that address near Hyde Park. Whatever John had expected was not the posh home they pulled up to.

They slipped into the foyer of the venue where two women, one dressed in tails, and the second in a period ball gown that looked more in place at the Victoria and Albert. They were speaking with the doorman at the end of the hall.  

Approaching he settled his hand to the center of Sherlock’s back, and stepped slightly forward to the guard.

“Mr. Vernet and the Doctor,” Sherlock supplied as the man looked up.

They needed to be recognized, but the aliases were a must.

“Mmmm,” the man’s eyes flickered between them. “That’s nice. Got something else for me?”

 John had been warned, although this was the first of the establishments to enforce it.

The detective bent down, pressing his lips to the other mans. John’s hand on his back slipped lower, and tightened along the trousers, tugging Sherlock closer. His tongue slipped out, and he pushed through the other man’s lips careful to keep control. There was a slight moan, and as John’s knee nudged between his legs he was surprised to find Sherlock already half hard.

He took his time, opening the detective’s mouth and with an almost lazy insistence relished the way he could feel he small nuances he was coming to find were distinctly from the other man. They were charming, pleasurable, and John was realized he _enjoyed_ kissing the detective.

Felt a rush of pleasure that with just a kiss he could make the man pliant under his hand, and groaning into him.

“Alright then!” the bouncer gave a nod and opened the door. “Enjoy the party. Lovely ensembles by the way! You should make sure Kitty sees. She’s always looking for a good tailor.”

John nodded and stepped through the doors.

“Kitty?” he whispered to Sherlock.

“Our host.”

Looking up he felt like he had fallen into Wonderland.

“Oh.”

Three floors in an old mansion, with the upper floor for private play. They had entered into the ball room, on top of the mezzanine looking out upon a set of grand staircases lowering below. The walls and ceiling were hung with silks which held women and in men in varying states of nudity strung up in their confines. Indeed, the crowd let out a cry as one acrobat fell into a free fall, catching herself just before she reached the floor and allowing the gossamer net she war to fall down as well—before she climbed back up nude.

Across the way there were whipping stations, suspension posts, an iron maiden, and a selection of musicians playing a formal dance across the room, where the dancers played at a macabre type of courtship.

A full bar remained against the wall, and there were servers dressed as maids and butlers there to take their coats and hand them food and wine.

John dragged his eyes from a sitting bench where two men and a woman were engaged in a selection of acrobatic sex he was unaware was quiet possible until that moment. He had been unaware it was even possible with all three still partially dressed.

It was a perfect illustration of Victorian debauchery.

“Well then,” he said clearing his throat and as an afterthought reached inside his bag to draw out the riding crop. “Come along Sherlock. Brandy first.”

 

 

It was tamer than John had presumed. While there were preferences for every individual, Sherlock had been right that the initial evening began as a type of time-travel. Members conversed, teased, and interacted in ways that were befitting a novel of the period rather than something as elaborately questionable as John had imagined.

Indeed, couples drew off to corners for hefty kisses, while others simply created small talk and partook of absinthe and other vices befitting the period.

“I did bring a pipe, and I understand there is a smoking room,” there was a hint of hope in Sherlock’s voice and John scowled.

“Absolutely not.”

“But John-“

The music caught his attention. The waltz was something he had heard Sherlock play on occasion, and he glanced at the dancers.

“We could join them instead.”

Sherlock’s head lifted in interest, and he turned to look at John with his face open in surprise.

“You dislike dancing.”

John laughed. He’d put up enough of a battle when Sherlock had tried to teach him, but he had retained some knowledge.  

Enough to know Sherlock loved to.

“No. I’m just rather poor at it. I know you enjoy it though, and I can’t imagine there are all that many opportunities for you to show off.”

The smile he was rewarded with made his efforts well worth it. The other man glowed as he took John’s hand. For that moment, acting was hardly necessary at all as Sherlock led him towards the revelries.

Sometimes, the innocence in the man managed to shock John. The things that Sherlock loved, but rarely had the opportunity to indulge in.  Another time and place, perhaps murder would only be one of many things he could enjoy, but dancing proved less common in their London.

“Will you lead?”

John laughed brushing the man’s cheek before allowing himself to be led into position, “Only if you wish to find yourself run into other participants. I think in this you have the advantage.”

Sherlock smiled and they were off. The music swirled around them, and the colors and shapes of the other dancers were lost as they took off. The third time John managed to slam onto the man’s feet Sherlock’s hold tightened. 

“Keep your eyes on me John. I am leading, no need to watch elsewhere.”

John gave a brief nod, and let his eyes rise to meet the other man’s. Suddenly the turns came swifter, too lost in seas of blue that seemed to take in everything around them and somehow still keep his gaze.

As the music slowed Sherlock tilted his head closer to his ear, “The man on your left wearing a mask? He has been watching us for the past half hour.”

John’s eyes flickered. The man was hardly the only one wearing a mask, John would argue about half the clientele had some sort of facial covering upon their cheeks- although there were nearly as many discarded on the nearby tables.

Still, this man’s proved simple and black. A velvet covering that was crafted to coordinate with his matching suit.  

“You think that’s him?”

“Possible. He has observed other couples as well, but made no approaches. This is the first dance he partook of, until now he’s stayed to himself observing.”

John’s eyes took in a tall man, hefty build, and dark hair slicked back. From the continent and not Britain, there was a curve in his nose and a build in his cheekbones. 

“Yes. Perhaps Romanian or Bulgarian? Or Austria... I do not believe as far as Russia, but likely a Slavic or Germanic country. Lived in Britain for some years, and reasonably wealthy. I suspect a businessman who has made his primary home in London for the last decade.”

“And he would risk arrest?”

“Our murderer has a temper, and I suspect these were not his first. A serial murder, good with premeditation but also prone to passion? A foreigner explains the lack of previous cases until now.”

John grew silent as the music picked up once more and Sherlock carried them back into the thick of things.

 

The first time John had learned to dance, with Sherlock in his arms, his mind had been on a thousand other things, and his emotions still too caught in anger at the deception the man had played upon him.

Any dance at his wedding had been stopped by the detective fleeing the scene, and John too high on the events of the night to consider the slight.

This time they were playing a part, and John had reconciled with the feelings he still held towards the other man. Caught up in his gaze, he let himself be pulled close and leaned into the touch. There was no shame in the turns he found himself pulled into, nor the embrace as Sherlock caught him time and again.

Indeed, as the music grew more impassioned John found himself bubbling with laughter, and Sherlock grinning back. By the time the music ended, he found himself lifted and brought back to earth, Sherlock catching his waist, and John lifting up to brush his lips against the other man’s.

When Sherlock met his, it seemed like there could be nothing more natural.

“Perhaps-“he murmured in Sherlock’s ear. “We should allow ourselves a bit of privacy?”

It was an opportunity. Perhaps his only opportunity, and John found he was just far gone enough to allow it if the man was willing.

The masked man’s eyes still drew back to them, before flickering elsewhere. There was a hint of recognition now, as well as the question unspoken in his gaze.

“Yes. I think that would be advisable.”

This time John dare not meet his gaze full on. His chest tightened at the knowledge they would be joining the darker corners, and he let himself lead this time.

There was an appropriate chaise as he led them onto the second floor balcony. The lightening had grown dim, and they were in full view of the dancers and musicians, as he reached to take Sherlock’s jacket.

The man tilted his head in surprise.

“John?”

“I told you Sherlock. It’s all fine.”

Perhaps the alcohol from earlier had gone to his head. Perhaps it was the dancing. Whatever it was, they had marginal privacy and John no longer cared.

Sherlock paused, and then nodded. He reached for John’s tie, and pulled him down into a slow kiss.

“I-“

“Yes.”

It was a clash of fingers and buttons. John felt his shirt loosen and jacket fall to the floor. Meanwhile, he shoved back Sherlock, letting him collapse back upon the chaise. He lifted the nearly forgotten crop, and let it linger over each button. “Go on then,” he told the other man. “I think I deserve a bit of a treat, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes met his, and he refused to drop his gaze as long fingers flicked open button after button. The waistcoat fell first, and then the shirt fell open, John pushing it the rest of the way aside with the leather.

He could see Sherlock’s pulse rushing with each movement, and watched his nipples harden as he gave them a short flick with the tip of the crop. Sherlock bit his lip, and he repeated the action. Once, twice, and only on the third did the man finally give a slight cry.

“Good boy,” he murmured leaning over him so he could take one of the tight nubs between his lips and bite down.

This time the yell caught other’s attention. He watched the other man’s already hardening cock spring to attention between his legs. Carefully he lowered himself to straddle the other man and grind against the friction. Damn wool trousers, he could feel the itch there an still unsatisfying. Even with the feel of the other man's pulsing cock it was not enough to sedate his ever growing arousal.  

Sherlock’s back curved upward, seeking to grow closer, and as his hands gripped the chaise  John chuckled.

“I think not.”

From his pocket he removed the pair of cuffs from earlier, and wrapped them upon the man’s wrists, chaining him to a ring bolted against the wall above the man's head.

“John….” Murmured Sherlock with a groan.

Once the cuffs were in place, he shifted his own position further down. It took a moment, first letting his lips linger along the man’s jaw line, then once more brushing across the tender nipples until they were purple from his administrations.

Each new kiss, new mark, new bruise that he left with his lips and teeth caused the man beneath him to grow more agitated. Whatever ‘act’ they were supposed to play was entirely forgotten as John caught sight of spiraling grey eyes that begged.

Begged for more. Begged for John. Begged for release.

The man’s trousers were still on, and John felt a moment of regret at what he was about to do to the tailoring. Yet Sherlock had been the one to hand him the supplies, and the temptation too thrilling.

He reached inside the bag they had brought and drew the knife. He felt Sherlock go still beneath him as he ran the dull edge along his sternum.

“You enjoy this don’t you?”

Sherlock’s gaze was half-lidded, heavy with lust, and he licked his lips.

“Go on. Tell me how much you enjoy this.”

“Yes.“

He brought the blade lower and fiddled with the top of the other man’s trousers.

“Don’t worry love, I’ll be very careful.”

A quick movement and the first button was gone.

Sherlock gave a quick inhale, his eyes wide, and his hips suddenly still.

The trousers strained under the action.

A second slice, and the next thread cut.

Then a third.

With each slice Sherlock grew stiller, although there were soft cries slipping from his lips.

John leaned over to catch his mouth and quiet him. He was rewarded by seeking lips, tongues, and a thrust of hips under him.

“You deserve a reward for being so good,” he whispered letting his lips press against the other man’s in nearly a chaste kiss.

Sherlock would have none of it. His lips opened and John felt him reach out desperately with lips and tongue and teeth. At that moment there was no one but them in the room, no one but a faint violin playing somewhere behind and the hundred year old chaise the detective was spread out upon.

“ _John.”_

John's hand slipped between them, and into the trousers’ opening. Sherlock's cock was already wet, slick through the silk drawers the man wore underneath. The trousers slipped down over pale thighs as John worked his hand further along. Each inch his finger moved Sherlock gave another soft noise, and it was all John could do not to retrieve his own cock from it's prison and come then and there. 

He took up the knife once more, once the trousers had been pushed away. With the edge he nudged the tip just along the man's inner thigh and into the corner of where fabric and skin met. Under the sharper edge the already straining silk gave way and each inch ripping upward to reveal Sherlock’s long slender cock spring heavenward. It was thick for a man as thin as Sherlock, and its head rose high over his stomach with just the slightest curve. John might be thicker, but Sherlock was long enough to make it a challenge. 

John felt his own stomach clench. For all the other outings this was something that had not indulged in.There had been snogging, groping, commands, and a bit of light contact play but until that moment John might have called the past two weeks an extreme form of dating.

With this? This had been years, the military if he was honest, since he had last indulged in this particular activity. But the sight of Sherlock’s drawn face, and the knowledge they now had more than a handful of voyeurs about the edges meant there was no backing down now.

Indeed, the cock pulsed, pre-cum already leaking from the engorged tip.

“God. I could make you come without ever touching you couldn’t I?” He ran his fingers along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, burying the tips of his fingers in the dark curls of his pubic hair as the man let out another soft cry.

He prayed the man wasn’t really a virgin. Another unknown factor as he felt the man squirm beneath him, so sensitive John wasn't certain how much longer he could get him to last.

“I shan’t be so mean I think.”

In a swift movement he slipped back and lowered his head to the tip. He paused centimeters from the tip. Opening his mouth he gave a slight puff of air, and the man's cock jumped further. Another warm breath, and he could hear Sherlock struggling with the cuffs and let out a noise that sounded nearly like a sob.

Finally, as the opalescent liquid fell in pearls from the end, he lowered his mouth the rest of the way to lick teasingly at the very tip of Sherlock’s prick. The cry he was rewarded with made it worth the wait, as his lips wrapped around the tip and licked away the remnants of the first of the liquid. Small, delicate touches that caused Sherlock’s hips to rise from the cushions and John's name trip off his tongue.

Of all the fantasies and thoughts John had every chosen to entertain with the other man, this was not how he had imagined. Indeed, even Mary had teased him with the idea of a three-some once or twice before the end, and for all the times he had nearly said yes-- never had he imagined anything like this.

Not with a crowd of watchers, not with him handcuffed beneath him, not dressed like something out of a penny dreadful.

He removed his lips to lick a long stripe along the man’s length. The noises echoing from Sherlock’s lips were like nothing he had heard before. Indeed, there was a soft cry that made him worry for a moment before he heard his name cried out once more.

A thought ran through him. A thought as his hand reached around to brush the top of the man's arse. A thought as he let his hands lower and he slipped a finger between the crevice and pushed. 

Sherlock's breath hitched. 

He smiled. He drew his lips away as a small keening sound pulled from Sherlock's lips. Instead he dove his finger into the hole, working and searching the tight space and watching Sherlock writhe beneath him. 

He slipped in a second and Sherlock's hips jumped and he nuzzled his cheek against Sherlock's prick in response. 

John waited. Carefully. Probing his fingers until they were just a hair's-breadth from his prostate. 

He lowered his lips to swallow the cock in full. 

John felt the prick swell. The cry Sherlock gave made John swallow a second time, barely coming for air as his tongue wrapped around the engorging cock.

When Sherlock came it was with a scream. John could barely register, two fingers still inside, and the liquid filling his mouth with a bitter taste that he could never forget. He let it run down his throat carefully to catch every drop. Only after the man was spent did he remove his lips and fingers, gently lapping at any seed that might have slipped through. 

John had never been keen on swallowing, but hell if he’d have done anything else with the crowd they’d had come to stare.

Indeed, the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he pulled off was well worth it. 

For a moment, he could almost imagine it something akin to love.

_I love him._

The thought struck John like a bolt through the chest.

He reached up shaking. He forced his hands to keep still as he unlocked the cuffs and let the man free. He careful dropped his gaze, focusing instead at tucking the man back into his own trousers and trying to close them best he could with no buttons, and the silk drawers a pile of fabric on the ground.

Instead Sherlock pushed his hand back. 

He almost missed the moment Sherlock reached up with his freed hands to bring John down to a kiss. Sherlock's tongue searching, tasting himself in the crevices of John's mouth. Even as he let himself be guided back, and felt the other man’s hands run along his front to make quick of his own buttons. His mind was too trapped to truly realize the moment Sherlock's hand wrapped around his own prick, pushing aside his pants and running over the tip. Even as Sherlock leaned forward, his face buried in John's neck, his hand wrapped firmly around John's member, John wanted nothing more than to leave the odd club, the kinks, the toys, and instead properly unwrap the man upon his bed at 221B. Take him apart from the inside out until he could no longer remember where one of them began and the other ended. 

Sherlock pulled away and John groaned. He reached to pull the man back, but froze as the man stood before him. 

The trousers fell to the ground in a pile, next to the shredded pants and his jacket. He worked on the shirt cuffs, letting the sleeve guards and cuff-links fall next. The strip show was efficient, quick, and the man showed no signs of noticing the others whose eyes followed each new expanse of skin he revealed. 

Sherlock's eyes were nowhere but on John. 

John lay back, unable to resist touching his own cock any longer. Indeed, as Sherlock kneeled forward, reaching to draw something out of the bag, John felt he might come before Sherlock even reached him. 

Sherlock's lip tightened, "Not yet. If I may... _sir._ " 

_Oh God._

"Yes. Yes anything," murmured John. 

Sherlock rose his hand, and John realized what he'd retrieved. A bottle of golden oil, which Sherlock poured liberally into his hand. Still kneeling he slipped the hand behind himself and slipped two fingers straight inside. He groaned, thrusting his fingers inside him and John could see from where he sat the other man began to stretch himself. Opening, closing, pulling them away to add more oil and adding a third. 

By now his own prick was painful as he watched the other man prepare himself. 

_He can't mean to-_

Sherlock looked up and caught John's eyes. Before John had the opportunity to pull back, Sherlock rose, and slipped directly onto John. 

He was still tight, hot, the oil making it ease, and Sherlock choosing how far and fast he thrust himself on him. John screamed, possibly a curse, possibly Sherlock's name-- thrusting up into the other man as Sherlock brought his head down to catch his lips. 

The number of times he'd fantasized this. The number of times he had wanted. 

" _Fuck me,"_ whispered Sherlock in his ear. 

John complied. 

Again he thrust into the man. He grabbed his too thin waist, his hips, slamming his cock again and again into the other man. The man's over sensitized hole already leaving Sherlock softly crying out in response. When he came it was too quickly, too much, he wrapped his arms around the other man and prayed it wouldn't be the only time. 

As Sherlock pushed him into his a climax, as he whispered something unheard into John's ear, shuddered as he let himself rest against him even as John's cock went limp. After a moment he dragged his hand between them, pulling them back to his lips, licking off the rest of the residue in elegant strokes of the tongue-- the detective's eyes never left John's face. Indeed, he dipped once more, back along John's spent member, seeking more of his spent seed and then pulled himself down to John's prick to lick the rest from where it had landed on the other man.

John's fingers dipped into the man's curls and Sherlock gave a soft hum. When he removed his mouth, reaching in his pocket to remove a handkerchief and finish the job his mouth had begun before moving to his own arse to catch what he could. He winced slightly at the touch, no doubt sore from the pounding he had just succumbed to.

When he finished he hesitantly pushed forward to let his lips brush John's. 

" _Thank you_ ," the detective whispered under his breath. 

Suddenly John knew.

John had loved him from the beginning.

Loved him even when there was no hope of having him.

And for that moment, he could pretend Sherlock did too. 

 

**                                                                                                  

 

Several hours later, John thought that it was time to reconsider his opinion of the night.  

“Bugger this,” he muttered as he pulled at the ropes wrapped upon his wrist. He was still weak from whatever had been injected into his system, and his shoulder ached from the needle that had been slipped in.

He was naked, spread eagle, and there was a table of instruments across from him including the knife he had used on Sherlock. The ropes were professionally tied, and no matter the method John twisted they only tightened furthered.

And he hadn’t the slightest idea where Sherlock was.

Hopefully not captured as well. 

“Hello Doctor Watson.”

The voice was tinged with a heavy German accent as the man from earlier entered the room. John felt a momentary flash of disappointment, and the knowledge Sherlock would find the man exceedingly dull in his obviousness.  

“What a treat tonight! I had nearly picked out my prize before you two arrived. One of your government men, but then who do I see across the room? Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I was certain you’d come for me, but what a lovely act you put on there. Who would have imagined though, such a great detective buggered by his… blogger.”

“I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Mmmm. I am called the Baron. My family had land and wealth before the war, now only wealth. Still, I remember,” he said with a shrug. “And the wealth is enough to indulge in my little… hobbies.”

John glanced at the selection of weapons before him.

“Do you like my toys? I thought perhaps I should start with the knife, you did seem so very keen on it with your friend. It has been a while since I had a man survive skinning alive. Perhaps I shall take a piece as a souvenir. Shall I sew a little pouch from your cock and send the great detective your heart inside? I think that should be quite lovely don't you?”

John felt like he might be ill.

He had been through worse things, but this was slowly approaching the limits. God and here he had been worried about Sherlock going off by himself. Five minutes in the loo and he was the one dragged off to who knew where. He thought of screaming, but even if they were I the upper rooms no one was likely to come given how late in the evening.

“Takes away a bit of the fun if you kill all your players before a second round I should think.”

The Baron rolled his eyes, “I played with others, but apparently not as many who were as daring. Such a brave little soldier-" he said patting John's cheek. "I have read your blog, I find it gives me ideas for the times I am able to indulge in my own fun."

 "Great. A fan."

"Indeed. I admit I wish I could have had your friend, the detective. He was so lovely tonight. Tell me, was it you who left such pretty marks upon his back? They made such a pretty picture when you fucked him." 

John pulled against his bindings. "Shut up." 

"Oh someone else play with your little toy? I am surprised you bothered fucking him. He has such pretty plush lips. Perhaps, when he hunts me down, I shall see if he will wrap them around mine. I imagine he is quite skilled at such things with such a thick mouth. He seemed so obiedenant too. You scream his name when you came. Did you see the way his face lit up? So proud. I thought for sure you were the pet." 

"I said shut up!" 

The Baron grabbed a nine-tails and whipped it across John's chest. The man let out a yell, more from the shock than the pain. 

"I was not always a murderer you know. I do enjoy the simpler things, but this  _bitch_ has ruined my reputation. I would only save my masterpieces for special occasions, yet she felt the need to ban me from any respite in the London scene. Prostitutes are so dull. No fun at all. I need a challenge and she wished to take that away." His eyes flashed in anger.

"It has been sometime since I allowed myself my true art. So now I leave her little gifts, and she has her parties slowly seep into the same ruin she has left me. This one for sure, when I leave the famous John Watson painted on her floorboards.”

“You're Disgusting.”

“Beautiful.”

John bit his lip as the man approached and ran the knife along his throat, and then down his sternum and closer to his groin.

“Where to begin. Perhaps here I think. Your pet detective was so very fond of your-“

The knife clattered to the ground, as a blossom of crimson emerged from the man’s chest. The Baron had a genuine look of surprise, turning, and then fell to the ground in a clatter.

“John!“

Sherlock let out a cry and sprung across the room. There was an antique pistol in his hand, and he let it fall and reached for the knife to cut loose the bonds instead. “Tell me you are alright. For God's sake tell me he did not-“

“I’m fine Sherlock,” he stumbled forward as the blood rushed back to his limbs. “Aching a bit, but he didn’t even touch me.”

He found himself wrapped in the detective's embrace a moment later. Ghost lips pressed against his hair line, brushed against his lips, and it took a moment for John to realize he was trembling.

Apparently the threat of being skinned alive was enough to make him reconsider his own courage. 

“The Yard is on their way," he called to a figure in the door. "Tell Miss. Winter to escort them up, and I will need her to identify the murderer. She may wish to see the other guests are aware of the change of events  _before_ the police arrive.”

“Yes… yes sir.”

Sherlock helped him to the edge of the bed and wrapped a blanket over his still shaking limbs. Both were silent as the detective’s eyes flickered constantly over the doctor to check for injuries, and finally John brushed him away.

“Sherlock I mean it. I’m fine. He wanted to skin me alive, but he’d only just drawn the knife when you arrived. I'm in a bit of shock from being strung up so long, that's all.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened as he retrieved John's clothing to help him dressed.

“Forgive me John. I misjudged. I had thought he would come after me, not the other way around. How idiotic. OF course he went for the more dominate individual in the relationship. A hunter then, seeking his prey. He would dominate the individual, and then proceed to eliminate them.”

John’s eyes flickered to the pistol, “And where on earth did you get that one from?”

Sherlock smirked, “Cabinet in the main hall. Saw it after we entered and thought it might come in handy. Thank goodness none ever considered it might be best to keep them unloaded.”

They paused and a laugh began to build from John’s lips when a cry echoed in the door.

“Adelburt Gruner-“said a young woman from the doorway. “Oh my God. How did he get in here?”

Sherlock stood to greet her. 

“I believe he has been coming to your events in disguise for some time now. Unfortunately your penchant for masquerade, and size of the spaces allowed for him to go unnoticed even with your prohibition.”

“He was banned. My bouncer knows he wasn’t to be let in. He mutilated a woman at one of the first events I hosted in this city, and I swore I would see to it he never got in another event if I had a say.” The woman was trembling slightly, and her eyes locked on the body of the man on the ground.

“He also had enough money to pay his way through any door, even the most trust worthy ones. You recently had to replace your doorman?”

The woman’s lips tightened, “And who are you exactly?”

Sherlock crossed the room stretching out a hand, “Sherlock Holmes, and this is my… colleague. Doctor Watson. The deceit was necessary I am afraid, until this moment I was not certain you were un-involved.”

John could see by the pallor of her face, and the horror of her expression the woman may be many things but not that. Her slight frame trembled, and she tugged at the corset she wore in an attempt to loosen it.

“Never. I enjoy play. I enjoy _safe_ play, in a venue of extravagance. I offer up a little something for everyone, but never anyone like that monster. I created these to keep men like that out.” Her eyes widened and she looked away, “So those murders….”

“Were him.”

She sat upon a chair holding her face in her hand, “I hoped it wasn’t true. I should have gone to the Yard, but it might have been coincidence. I didn’t even know about the latest one until this morning—“

“The universe, Miss. Winter, is rarely so lazy.”

 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case has been solved and now there are matters to be discussed.

They had tiptoed around each other for days. 

There had been no mention of the Baron's murder. No mention of the scene from the couch or the later scene in the hallway, or the last almost kiss when Sherlock had saved him.

Sherlock was in his dressing gown, leaning over a kettle where he was making tea of all things. 

John watched him for a moment before stepping forward. The man seemed dedicated in ignoring his presence, but John would have none of it. 

John wrapped his arms carefully about the other man's waist, pressing his cheek against his back and listening to the man's heart pound from the other side. The detective was frozen, tea forgotten, as John spoke.

“Tell me if I’m wrong Sherlock. You can tell me to bugger off, or delete the whole thing but... not like this. Not with us dancing around in circles and you unable to even meet my eye.”

The detective showed no sign of moving.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are blathering about.”

John's hold tightened.

“You know exactly what I am talking about.”

The silence hung in the room. They’d survived too much to be torn apart by this. Perhaps it would have been better for John to leave well enough alone, but he was  _tired_ of ignoring it. Tired of pushing away his emotions. If it was truly what Sherlock wanted, then fine, but he wasn't going to leave. Not this time.

And now there lay the possibility of more between them.

He could feel the way Sherlock trembled under his touch, slowly turning and pulling away so he could face John. There was the flicker of grey eyes glancing to his face and away once more.

“You’re not gay.”

“Now whose the one being obvious? Bi, you idiot. I do enjoy women. I love women. I also love breasts, but I can appreciate a good arse too. I also like to think I'm a decent hand at giving head, or did you think I was that good for a first time try?”

He smiled at the flush across Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Ah. I had thought perhaps-“

“Yeah. Nope."

Sherlock still wouldn't meet his eyes, instead his mind seemed to be racing and it left John with an inkling of hope.

“What about you?”

It startled Sherlock from his thoughts. He watched the man’s brow furrowed, and wished he could reach up to brush it away.

“Me?”

“Yes Sherlock. Is your work still adverse to the notion of maybe having a threesome? Because if not, what about-“

Sherlock cut him off. 

“Yes.”

John blinked.

“Yes what?”

Sherlock leaned down catching his lips in a quick kiss. It was nothing more than a press of lips, but it was enough to send John's heart racing and the knots in his stomach to unravel.

“I had thought for certain the only way you would be amicable, John, would be for a case. While I was elated with your eagerness, while the situation was underway, I presumed of course it would only be the once. Perhaps twice should another case happen upon our-

John felt a laugh bubbling to his lips.

“Oh my God! You just wanted to go undercover so I would get you off!”

“What?" Sherlock took a step back, "Don’t be ridiculous John.”

“You did! You saw an opportunity and you took it. Why else didn’t you just question that woman Kitty Winter? If you’d dug around a bit, I suspect you wouldn’t have even had to kill the man.”

“She was a suspect John. Obvious. I wasn't going to give our hand away”

“Mmhm.”

John reached up, threading his fingers through Sherlock curls and pulling him back down, “Well then, I know what I would like to do now that we haven’t an audience purveying my technique.”

“Do you?”

John’s fingers slipped to intertwine with the other man’s. There would be no games, no play acting, no anger or fear this time. No quick fucks or passionate scenes that left them both searching for air. There would be more occasions for that in the days to come. 

“Take me to bed Sherlock and I’ll show you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Things to note: 
> 
> The case ended up closing similar to Garridebs, and playing off of Illustrious Client. Initially that was not meant to be the case, but I wrote the name of the club founder as Kitty and suddenly the idea of the Baron as a sadomasochist gone vengeful sort of caught me. Plus, it's rather implied as much in the case. That said-- the point of the fic was never really a case fic and if you were looking for a great adaptation of this story I can recommend at least two on my tumblr. 
> 
> There is apparently a trend of London Play Parties to title their names off things like "killing" and "murder-" if your curious you should go look them up. There is a fascinating amount of them, and yes I know some parties do require partners (especially same-sex) to make out at the door, so they know they're looking to join the fun. 
> 
> Also, please do not take any of this BDSM as proper play. I am by no means an expert, and most of what I've gathered I've read. If you are looking to engage, I recommend doing your research, always talk to your partner about limits, and have a safeword from the onset. There are plenty of sites and blogs out there. This is all fiction, and is meant as such. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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